Creating Goliath & Making Friends
Eugen Sandow MEETs GOLIATH
At the end of my first engagement in London and the provinces, I went to Germany for a holiday. Driving out one day at Aachen, I met a veritable giant. He was a quarryman, and he was engaged in loading stones. So huge and extraordinary was his appearance that my horse positively shied at him.
Imagine, if you can, this tremendous fellow: his head as huge and grotesque as that of any pantomime mask, with a nose the size of an ordinary fist. As for his own fist, it would have made more than three of mine, and when a five-shilling piece was placed beneath the ball of his finger, believe me, it was impossible to see it. So large were his boots that not only could I get both my feet into one, but I could turn entirely round inside. And yet, strangely enough, despite his immense limbs and body, he was not an extraordinarily tall man. A little more than six feet; six feet two-and-a-half inches, in fact, was his height. His chest measurement was about eighty inches and his weight 400lbs. He was not a fat man in proportion to his size. Quite the contrary. He was bony and muscular.
The thought occurred to me as soon as I saw him that to give him a part in a performance as a modern Goliath would be, from a popular point of view, eminently attractive. I asked him what wages he was earning. “Five marks a day,” he replied. It appeared that he was given nearly double the pay of an ordinary labourer because he could lift heavier weights and load the carts more quickly. I told him that if he liked to accept an engagement with me I would give him twenty marks a day, whether he worked or not. A German mark, as everyone knows, is equivalent to an English shilling. The giant quarry man could scarcely credit such good fortune, and eventually it was agreed that he should come to my house to talk the proposal over, and have his strength tested. When he came it was found that he could do nothing more than lift heavy weights from the floor. He had never put himself into training, and his exceptional proportions, which, under different circumstances, might have been turned to good account, were of no special use to him. However, it was settled that he should come with me, and I brought him to England.
Well do I remember our arrival at Charing Cross. The huge size of Goliath, whose real name, by the way, was Karl Westphal, attracted the most pronounced attention. It was impossible to think of taking a cab, for no cab would have held him, even if he had been able to get inside it. There was, therefore, nothing for it but to walk to my chambers, which were then in Rupert-street, Piccadilly. Thousands of people followed us the whole way, and Rupert-street was blocked. A giant, when you have got him, is rather like a white elephant. He is a rare creature, but it is difficult to know what to do with him. It would have been clearly unwise to let him go into the streets, and accordingly he had to be kept indoors. For seven or eight weeks I tried to train him, but he proved an idle fellow, and it became evident that nothing much could be done with him.
I had an engagement at that time at the Royal Music Hall, and a performance was arranged in which Goliath had to surprise me, lumbering after me across the stage, and trying to hold me in his grip.
We wrestled together, and it was his business to make himself the victor. Then, in order to finish me, he took a cannon, weighing 400lbs., and placing it on his broad shoulders, prepared to fire. In a moment or so I returned with the clubs. It was now the turn of the giant to show alarm, and gradually he had to retire, with the cannon still on his back, into a frame of refuge. I at once climbed to the top, and getting into a position above my antagonist, I lifted him, his refuge, and his cannon, with one finger, a few inches off the ground. During this part of the performance we fired the cannon, and the whole display was brought to a conclusion by placing my arm through a leathern belt which girt his waist, and carrying him at arm’s length off the stage.
What became of him after he left me I never heard. The last report was that he had carried off his own landlady, and that the two had started some sort of show together.
A PRESENTATION UNDER CURIOUS CIRCUMSTANCES.
After my engagement at the Royal came a holiday in Paris. It was there I met a very dear school friend, whom I had not seen since I was about ten years of age. My friend’s father was at this time German Consul at Paris. The incident which followed our meeting will be better explained by prefacing the story with the statement that as boys we were great billiard players. We were continually playing at each other’s houses, and, though we were such mere lads, we could even beat our fathers at the game. Nothing, therefore, was more natural than that, when we met, my friend should ask me if I was still a good player. As a matter of fact I was not in practice, but that did not deter us from deciding to try our skill. So we went to a room which he selected, and started a game. He did not know then that I had made my strength a profession; he was rather under the impression that I had followed my father’s desire and studied medicine. However, the game began, and, as we talked a good deal over old times and spoke in German and played rather slowly, I suppose we unconsciously annoyed a party of Frenchmen. At any rate they made unfriendly remarks, and before we had finished our game they marked on the slate that they had engaged the table. Wishing to play again, we were not disposed to give it up to people whose manner was obviously offensive. As our right to continue was disputed, the attendant was called, and it was pointed out that, according to the regulations of the establishment, we were perfectly within our rights in playing a second game. So we played on, and whilst we were joking and laughing about old times they, it seems, thought we were making fun of their discomfiture.
When the game was finished we ordered two steaks, which were served at a table behind the players. We were still laughing over old times when one of the party came up, saying angrily, “I’ve had enough of your laughter; if you don’t stop be sure I’ll make you.”
I told him that I was very sorry that my mood offended him, and if I could not laugh at our own personal jokes I should be sorrier still. It was added that I did not wish to interfere with him, and it was suggested also that he should attend to his own game and leave us alone.
It was evident that he wished to pick a quarrel. Nor would hot words suffice him. Vowing that he must give me something to remember him by, he struck me across the face. Beneath this fresh insult I tried to remain quite calm, telling my assailant that it would be certainly better for him to take himself off and leave me alone. But at such times, when the temper is quick, good advice is not heeded; moreover, he probably thought he had to deal with some one of poor spirit.
Whatever may have been in his mind the facts are plain: finding that I took one blow calmly he struck me another and called me coward. My friend, who had hitherto kept quiet, now attempted to interfere, but I held him down, nearly wrenching his wrist round. The force which was exerted must have given him an idea of the strength that was ready to be used if it were needed, for looking first at his wrist and then at me, he exclaimed in English, “Why don’t you knock the fellow down?”
“So you speak English,” said the Frenchmen, “Why don’t you get up and fight me?” With these words he struck me fiercely on the nose. The blood streamed down my clothes, which were spoilt besides by the gravy that was splashed on them in the disturbance from the dishes. My appearance must have been deplorable, and as I was that morning wearing a new suit, I lost my patience with the man. I walked slowly towards him, and with a quick grip of his neck and knees, I picked him up, knocked his head and knees together, and banged him down in the centre of the table. The table broke through, and he fell to the ground. You can imagine, I daresay, the scene of wreckage and consternation—the smashed table, the man dazed, lying in a heap on the floor, his friends around him open-mouthed with amazement. In the midst of this scene I sat down with my friend and smoked a cigar.
A gendarme was fetched. He entered the room and wanted to arrest me. The proprietor caught hold of him, saying, “Be careful, he is an awful man, he will kill you. You must have some assistance.” Four more gendarmes were summoned, and, refusing to take me in a cab, they marched me along to the police station. Some of the friends of the man who was hurt accompanied us and explained to the authorities that the regrettable affair was not my fault. They were sorry at what had happened, and I was liberated on bail.
Meanwhile they took their injured comrade to the hospital. He was still unconscious, and in that condition he remained a day and a half. Being sincerely sorry for the injury I had caused, I called at the hospital and asked to see him, but he refused.
As soon as he recovered, which was not for some weeks, I left Paris to return to London to fulfil an engagement at the Tivoli.
One night, whilst I was performing there, the porter brought me a message asking if I would step up to see a gentleman and a party of friends in a private box. When I went up I seemed to recognize the face of the person who wished to see me, but I could not recall where I had seen it before. The party invited me to take wine with them, and nothing would satisfy them but my consent to be their guest at supper.
When we reached the hotel, my host said: “I perceive, Mr. Sandow, you have only pretended that you know me. You do not really recall my identity.”
It had to be confessed that he was right.
“If you really knew me,” he proceeded, “you would probably not speak to me.”
“Why not?” I asked. “I speak to you because I seem to like you, surely that is sufficient.”
“We will see,” he added; “I have come a long way to see you. I have come from Paris. I am an amateur in your own line, performing feats of strength myself. Of all my friends I have the reputation of being the strongest. Having read of your performances in the French and English papers, I was determined to come to London to see you. I saw the whole programme at the Tivoli to-night, waiting impatiently for your display. When you stepped on to the stage I nearly dropped to the ground.”
“Why!” I asked, growing curious.
Tears stood in his eyes, as he exclaimed earnestly, “Will you promise to forgive me, promise me that or I cannot tell you.”
I told him that I did not know what I had to forgive, but at any rate I promised to forgive him in advance.
“Well,” he went on, “if I had known you were Mr. Sandow I would never have struck you that blow in Paris;” and then in enthusiastic French fashion he clung hold of me and kissed me on the cheek—on the cheek that he had previously smacked—before all the people.
Of course, why had I been so blind? This was my assailant of the French billiard room. All, however, was now forgiven and forgotten, and as a token of our good understanding he presented me with a handsome gold watch. Today we are the greatest friends, and, whenever I go to Paris, I stay with him. He is a French Count, but for obvious reasons, not the least being that he is my friend, despite the hard knocks which came of our first meeting, it would not be fair to disclose his name.
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